


Dead Memories

by Mrs_Hyperfixed



Series: Markiplier Ego One Shots [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Attempted Suicide, Death, Illiteracy, Murder, PTSD, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24422914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Hyperfixed/pseuds/Mrs_Hyperfixed
Summary: The Host and Yancy get off on the wrong foot. One day Yancy tries to find out why the Host avoids him and the Host takes things too far.
Relationships: Host x Yancy, Maybe the beginning, kind of - Relationship
Series: Markiplier Ego One Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794175
Comments: 1
Kudos: 37





	Dead Memories

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like the quality of this deteriorated the further down I got but oh well.

A Heist With Markiplier had done very well, and as a result 3 new egos had been “born”. They had fit in well. Magnum was loud and boisterous and got along well with Wilford but had the common sense to hold the lunatic by the back of the shirt whenever he attempted to do anything suicidal, much to the relief of Dark. Illinois was charming and could reduce most of the egos to a blushing mess in no time with his flirting. He also had some wonderful stories that he had given the Host permission to write down. There was one problem though. Yancy. The Host didn’t like Yancy. He had been as quiet as a mouse when he had been introduced, having seemingly lost the confidence he had had in prison. When he had finally opened up he was just as loud as Magnum before he quieted down again and went back to his timid ways. These were normal characteristics, but something about the man just rubbed him the wrong way. Something about him felt dangerous. Everyone knew he had killed his mother and father, but no one seemed to be aware of that capability for violence that lurked underneath Yancy’s skin. But the Host knew. As soon as the Host had been near Yancy he’d been struck with a vision so violent that the blood had poured from his eyes, much to Yancy’s horror. As a result he tended to avoid him whenever he could, opting to just stay in his library and work. Yancy’s past reminded him of someone long dead.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t avoid him forever. And Yancy had started to notice how the Host turned on his heel whenever Yancy and him had accidentally appeared in the same room or how the Host would rush by him if they were forced to go past each other in the hallway. At first Yancy had been slightly relieved, the Host was a terrifying being and was taller than most of them. To be honest Yancy had started off avoiding all of the egos until he had been talked into socialising after an incident. It hadn’t been so bad, Wilford had just pissed everyone off when it had gotten stuck in his head. And then everyone else had gotten it stuck in their head. But everyone preferred having Yancy’s signature song memorised rather than not having Yancy here at all.

Now that Yancy was beginning to settle down properly with the rest of the egos he was beginning to take things a bit more personally.

So Yancy resolved to go down to the Host’s library and ask him what the hell his problem was.

***

Yancy had to admit, he was impressed. The library was where the basement should be, but as soon as he stepped inside he knew that some magic had to be at play. The ceiling was so high that he couldn’t see it, the shelves so tall that it would be impossible for him to reach the top of them. The carpet was red and plush and the gargantuan room was illuminated by what appeared to be bright candlelight without a single candle in sight. The smell of old books permeated the air. It was a beautiful place, and Yancy felt slightly sorry for the Host for not being able to see it. 

He wandered down the aisles idly, not really knowing where he was going and what he was looking for. After a little while he had forgotten why he had originally come down and instead ran a finger over the hardback spines of the books. Some were black, some were red, some were a deep green. Golden letters in a beautiful looping scrawl adorned them. He was tempted to bring one out and look at the handwriting on the pages, but part of him remembered that everything in this library belonged to the Host. He didn’t want to risk pissing him off too bad by touching something he wasn’t supposed to. 

A prison flashback came to him unbidden. A flashback that showed a young Yancy reaching out to grab an apple off another inmate s lunch tray. He wasn’t going to eat it anyway. Big mistake. Yancy had ended up with a snapped wrist for his trouble. Of course the man who had snapped his wrist had ended up in solitary, and some of the older prisoners had rallied around him to teach him how prison worked. They had taught him well. Yancy had been the leader and the Warden’s favourite right up until Dark had come to get him. 

He had been fairly lost at first. The environment in the mansion had been so different to prison, but just like those old prisoners had done, some of the egos had rallied around him. Many of them were surprisingly paternal. 

But not the Host. And Yancy was reminded of his purpose when he came to an enormous gap in the shelves. And he quickly discovered that the Host used this space for his office. 

Across from Yancy sat a decently sized mahogany desk that was adorned with a short stack of papers, and an old-fashioned golden pen with an inkwell next to it . A cushioned brown leather chair served as the seat for when work needed to be done. Off to the right side of the clearing was a comfortable looking armchair with a small end table next to it.. But no sign of the Host. 

He must be further into the library. Yancy entertained the thought of turning back, but if he didn’t do this now then he would never have the courage. So he sat in the armchair and waited. And waited. And waited. 

The library was so warm and the lights were at a dim glow.  _ Why would a blind man need light?  _ He thought to himself as his eyelids started drooping. He had been having trouble sleeping recently in unfamiliar terrain. He fought to stay awake. In the prison if you fell asleep anyway but your bunk then you were either going to be woken with a beating or with something missing. Falling asleep was dangerous. And he didn’t want the Host to find him asleep in his library. But he couldn’t help himself as sleep dragged him down into the abyss. 

***

Yancy didn’t know what time it was when he was woken up by the scratching of a pen. It could have been hours or minutes and he would have been none the wiser. He kept his eyes shut. 

“The Host knows Yancy is awake,” came the delicate voice from off Yancy's right.

He uncurled himself from the couch and peeled his eyes open. The Host sat at his desk and scratched away with his golden pen at his stack of papers. Half of the stack was now off to the side. How long had Yancy slept? 

The Host was just as imposing as when Yancy had first met him. He didn’t have the same kind of terrifying raw power as Dark, but something oozed out of him. Even in his chair he was tall. His head was down towards the paper he was writing on, the bandages covering his sockets beginning to go red with blood. He was muttering under his breath as he wrote, quiet enough that the scratching of the pen nearly drowned out his voice. 

“Yancy needs to leave.” 

Straight to the point then. 

Yancy shook his head as he spoke, “No, not until youses tell me why youse been acting so weird.”

Yancy moved to stand in front of the Host’s desk, determined to stand his ground. 

The pen stopped, and the Host moved his head up to seemingly stare at Yancy. Yancy felt those empty eye sockets cut right through him. He wondered if they were really pitch black inside. 

The Host seemed to consider for a moment, “If Yancy wishes to know, he makes the Host uncomfortable. Now that he has his answer, Yancy needs to leave.” 

Yancy was taken aback. Sure, he had made people uncomfortable before. But that was usually on purpose, throwing his weight around so that new prisoners understood the hierarchy. But he hadn’t actually done anything to the Host. Had he?

The Host went back to scratching away with his pen. That was it? He wasn’t even going to tell Yancy why? He felt his anger rising in a way that it hadn’t since he had gotten out of prison. That wasn’t good. His temper could be dangerous and make him do stupid things. But he was a slave to it. Yancy waited and waited while his anger grew. He wasn’t going to leave until the Host acknowledged him again and told him  _ why  _ Yancy was such a source of discomfort. Without thinking about the consequences, Yancy marched over to the Host and ripped the pen out of his hand. 

He had been midway through a word, and now a line had been jerked across the page and through the paragraph that the Host had been in the middle of writing. As Yancy yanked it back the inkwell spilled over the pages that the Host had written on, effectively ruining the whole pile. Somewhere in the back of Yancy’s head that registered as being a very bad thing. He almost wanted to apologise. But his anger was still fierce. 

The Host wouldn’t have accepted his apology at this point anyway. 

“What the hell is youses problem?!” Yancy hissed.

The Host was silent for a minute. Then he stood up. 

“How long before Yancy turns those hands on one of the other egos?”

“What-”

The Host interrupted him. He was angrier than Yancy now, and the impact that his words were going to have hadn’t yet reached him. “The Host sees everything. The Host sees Yancy as a teenager. He sees Yancy’s mother with her back turned staring out of the kitchen window.”

Yancy’s anger dissipated. It had been replaced with cold dread. He knew where this was going.

“Yancy’s mother feels dissapointed. Her son was expelled for getting into fights. She doesn’t know what to do. Lost in her thoughts she doesn’t hear him. Not until his hands are wrapped around her throat.”

Yancy took a step back, dropping the pen. 

“She reaches up and starts clawing at his hands, desperately trying to pry him from her neck. Desperately trying to get some air in. She can’t make any noise. She can’t call out for her husband to save her. She tries to reach for a knife, but even now she can’t bring herself to hurt her son like that. He notices her reaching and yanks her away from the counter, pulling her down onto the floor. Hurting her son be damned, her brain is in survival mode and she begins to thrash. But she doesn’t realise it’s too late, only that she’s in some of the worst pain she’s ever felt. Her arteries have ripped and her blood has entered her arterial wall. She’s having a stroke.”

“Please stop,” Yancy begged.

“She’s dying. And her second to last thought before she fully slips into death’s embrace is  _ what did I do? _ She feels betrayed, and yet she still can’t bring herself to hate her son. And as her soul finally leaves she thinks  _ please God don’t let anyone hurt him _ .”

Yancy fell to his knees, devastated. He hugged himself as he felt tears prick at the back of his eyes. How was he supposed to react to this? He wanted to shrivel up and die. But the Host wasn’t done.

“Now how about Yancy’s father?”

Yancy shook his head. He wanted to beg the Host to stop. He would do anything.

“Yancy’s father came downstairs after ten minutes to find his son still choking the corpse of his dead wife. Yancy raised his head to look up at him. Everything happened so fast, too fast for his father to fight him off.. Yancy had reached towards the counter and ran at his father to attack. At first he had thought his son had punched him repeatedly. And he foolishly thought to himself that he could have a chance of survival if he ran. Then he felt the warmth. He felt like he was covered in hot sweat, and then he looked at his son. His son was holding a knife with a blade covered in so much red that it had coated the handle, thick red rivulets of it ran down his hand. He looked down at his chest. He couldn’t see the wounds. His white shirt had been dyed completely red and stuck to his chest. It was beginning to run down his trousers and stain the carpet. And then he felt the pain. He felt the hot searing pain in his organs. He screamed, and Yancy lunged forward to slit his throat.”

Yancy was sobbing openly now, uncaring of the Host’s presence.

“The man felt the same betrayal his wife had, and as he choked on his own blood he hoped that they wouldn’t kill his son when they found him.”

Yancy’s heart cleaved in two. Even in the end his parents had loved him. He was a monster. The Host was right, it would only be a matter of time before Yancy turned on his new family. He didn’t deserve to be here. He should be back in prison suffering alone in solitary. Without thinking, he got up and ran past the Host, going further into the library until the Host could no longer hear his cries of anguish.

***

The Host had made his way up to the Doctor’s office, his bandages heavy with blood after forcing those visions of Yancy’s parents. It had been a slightly painful process removing his bandages, the blood acting as a glue. Dr Iplier had used cotton swabs to reach into his sockets and clear out fresh blood as well as blood that had dried to the inside of his sockets. He had remained silent for the entire cleaning process, mulling over what he had said to Yancy. Maybe he had gone slightly too far, but Yancy had ruined an entire book. And he hadn’t been wrong about Yancy’s capacity for violence.

“Have you seen Yancy?” Dr Iplier asked as he cleared the last of the blood from the Host’s gaping eye sockets.

“The Host has not,” he lied, hoping the doctor wouldn’t sniff out his guilt.

The Host wasn’t good at keeping secrets, it went against the very nature of his powers. He fought to keep from narrating what had happened in the library when Dr Iplier had asked, instead focussing on narrating his surroundings. 

Dr Iplier wrapped a fresh bandage around the Host’s eyes. “None of us have seen him all day. I’m afraid that he’s going to do something stupid.” 

“What does Dr Iplier mean?” 

“I’m honestly shocked the all-seeing Host never saw it,” Dr Iplier joked, trying to mask his obvious worry.

“The Host is  _ not _ all-seeing,” the Host said as he beckoned for the doctor to continue.

Dr Iplier sighed. “You know it took him a while to adjust. Well, in the first few weeks before he came out of his shell he tried to kill himself. Broke into my office when I stepped out and tried to overdose. I’m afraid that something might tip him over the edge.”

The Host froze. 

Oh no. No no no. The Host had gone too far. He knew he’d gone too far. Not even ten minutes after Yancy had ran from him, the Host had started to feel as though there were stones in his stomach, and he didn’t want to admit to himself that he was beginning to feel regret. The weight of his mistake hit him like a train, forcing the breath out of him. Dr Iplier shot him a quizzical look that the Host ignored in his panic. He hadn’t liked Yancy, but he hadn’t wished for his death. All of his thoughts crashed into him. Who was he to judge Yancy anyway? He had been a monster too at one point. And this. . . if he had pushed Yancy to the edge then it would be even more blood on his hands. 

Yancy might still be in his library. He had to find him. As soon as a fresh bandage covered his eye sockets he shot out of the office and ran.

***

The Host had forced a vision. It made him bleed profusely and he would probably need to go back to the doctor fairly soon, but it had helped him find Yancy. He was deep in the library, and the Host found him curled up hugging his knees and sniffling, just like he had been in the Host’s vision. Yancy’s face was red and streaked with tears, his brown eyes bloodshot and the skin around them puffy. He was breathing hard, exhausted from the excessive sobbing. If he heard the Host’s approach then he ignored him. 

“Yancy?”

Still Yancy ignored him. The Host didn’t blame him.

“Yancy, the Host is sorry.”

Still nothing. Sighing, the Host sat on the floor across from him, back leaning against the bookshelf and crossing his legs. 

“Just leave me to starve,” Yancy whispered. “I’m a monster. They loved me and I killed them. All because I can’t keep my cool.”

The Host winced. He shouldn’t have told him their last thoughts. It had probably made it easier believing that his parents had hated him in those last moments. The Host had made a terrible mistake.

“Yancy isn’t a monster. The Host is a monster.”

Yancy lifted his eyes from his feet to stare at the Host, obviously curious but at the same time too afraid to ask. The Host was using his sight to look at the smaller man, blood slowly leaking through his bandages again as a result. Yancy looked so small and vulnerable curled up in the Host’s library. It made his heart twist with even more regret. 

“The Host ignored Yancy. He ignored Yancy’s issues. He ignored Yancy’s pain. And the Host has no right to judge if Yancy has violent tendencies.” The Host took a deep breath, his own memories just as painful. “The Host was someone else before. Someone who did terrible things. He hurt people for fun. He would break people’s legs with his bat and watch them crawl. He would cut off slices of skin and make them swallow it. He would put out cigarettes on his victims eyes. So the Host supposes that Yancy and the Host aren’t so different after all. No amount of apologies can take away what the Host and Yancy did, but all they can do is try to move on.” The Host took another deep breath. “The Host is sorry. He truly is. And he will spend as long as is necessary to make it up to Yancy.”

Yancy stared at him, but at least his tears had stopped flowing. The same couldn’t be said for the blood still dripping out of the Host’s eye sockets.

Finally Yancy uncurled himself, wiping his eyes and face as he did so. “It’s. . . It’s alright.”

It wasn’t alright, and the Host didn’t feel any better. In fact, he felt worse. And things were beginning to grow awkward in the silence that stretched out between them. The Host looked for something, anything to say.

“Does Yancy like to read?” 

Yancy looked down at his feet, almost seeming to be ashamed. “I can’t read.”

The Host cocked his head in surprise. Yancy was illiterate?

“I just. . . never did so well in school. And people in prison don’t care if you read good, ya know? One cellmate once read his book to me once when I asked, but I was too embarrassed to ask if he’d teach me.

Yancy wanted to learn to read. And the Host had a library full of books.

“Then the Host will teach Yancy.”

“Youses don’t have-”

The Host held up his hand. “It’s the least the Host can do. He will not take no for an answer.”

Finally, Yancy nodded. And the Host was pleased to see a timid smile on his face. 

The Host stood and offered the smaller man a hand. “Lets begin.”


End file.
